


Ergosphere

by rosereddawn



Series: Gravitational Lens [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Self-Harm, unfinished hipster ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosereddawn/pseuds/rosereddawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda; Sam cuts Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ergosphere

A couple of hundred meters on, along a dirt track, hidden behind a group of trees, is where Dean lets his baby roll out and then slumps against her side.

It’s quiet. Some white noise of cars passing in the distance, on the busier street. Birds in the trees, the wind. The sounds that the earth makes.

He slides down to sit in the dirt. Brought to his knees and defeated.

Sam strolls through the speckled shadows of the trees and tries a smile. One of his “I understand your pain” smiles, one of the “Just trust me” smiles, and Dean’s seen them all often enough on the doorsteps of orphans and widows just before they got invited in. It’s a little crooked this time. Not his best.

It makes Dean wonder what it is that he’s losing here. It makes him wonder whether he too is a case that Sam is set on solving. A possession or a curse, something evil that latched on to him and could have been ripped out in time, and wouldn’t that have been nice?

But Sam is clever. Smart kid. Won’t take him long to figure out that this is all Dean is. No job, just plain old misery.

Crouching, the knife in hand, Sam asks, “Where do you want it?”

Like it matters still. Secret wide out in the open, like this isn’t what Sam will see every time he looks over. Dean might as well be wearing these lines across his forehead instead of hidden between his legs.

He shrugs and holds out an arm because it’s there. Sam dutifully rolls up the sleeve and positions himself in the small space between Dean and the car, then holds Dean's arm at the right angle with the wrist trapped vice-like in his fist. Dean lets him, tries to think of the million other times they’ve done this, drawing blood for rituals and sigils, out in broad daylight too, and he might have always held his breath to savor the sting, but it never happened like this, for his own narcissist purposes.

When Sam sets the blade, mouth small and brows furrowed with focus, Dean angles his head the other way. He shuts his eyes tightly because knowing what he makes his little brother do is bad enough. There’s no need to watch.

The earth is cold, and the car is ticking patiently, and Dean is holding his breath until he can’t. He’s this close to pleading when the blade slides through his skin, cold at first, then blossoming into a slow burn. There’s a second cut just below the first, a pause in which Sam asks, “Good?” and Dean begs for one more.

So he gets his three cuts. It’s not until he’s back into the car, unnecessary gauze taped over the red lines, and pulling her from the shadows back onto the road, that he allows himself to feel for the pain settling in. This sweet pain that seeps into his blood, mellow this time, his arms so much less sensitive than the inside of his thighs. Its light-headed burn dulls and flattens the shadows, narrows the gap between him and his skin, and it allows him to put bravado on like a jacket. A fleeting glance at the mirror, he can finally pretend to recognize his own image.

Sam sits in his place, eyes out of the window, and Dean doesn’t question his silence.


End file.
